


It's not Just the Catholicism

by DustySoul



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Child Abuse, Gen, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 11:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4017448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DustySoul/pseuds/DustySoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that bad. Besides, Stick'd hurt me a lot worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not Just the Catholicism

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for (physical) child abuse (not described) on both the parts of Stick and Jack Murdock. Also warning for Matt being given some pretty intense pain killers somewhat against his will? In the context of he has told Claire how much he hates painkillers and in this instance she thought they were necessary. 
> 
> For this prompt on the kink meme  
> http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/1296.html?replyto=2170128
> 
> And, as always, it's just me and text to speech running the spelling and grammar show so please let your sad, sad, dyslexic author know of any spelling and grammar errors. It's like pointing out that my flies undone or my tags sticking out. Except like, I'm a chronic doer of those things.

Matt'd fucked up bad. Big time. It hurts to breathe. It _rattles_ to breathe. He keeps coughing up… something. It might be blood. Since his nose is broken and streaming hot, iron smelling liquid down his face he can’t tell. He keeps crawling, ignoring the shooting pains stabbing through his chest. There’s no telling how many ribs are cracked or broken. His biggest concern isn’t even that a rib might’ve punctured a lung, but that his left ear has been non stop ringing since the last goon whacked him in the head with a metal pipe. He’s confused and hurting and alone.

He’s come to a door, and no matter how much he focuses he can’t hear past his own noisy breath and pained grunting. He hauls himself up, realizing that his head doesn’t just hurt it’s also spinning. He falls against the door for balance and groans.

Half an hour? An hour? Later, he’s back at his apartment, laid out on the sofa, with only vague, pained memories about how he got there.

“Claire?” He croaks. 

“Nope, guess again.” Foggy says.

He can’t help but smile and let out a ghost of a laugh, even though the latter makes his ribs feel like they’re on fire. He settles into the pain. “Foggy.” He sighs.

He hears Foggy sit in one of the arm chairs. 

Matt hums, zoning out, taking a quick inventory of his body. His head hurts, hearing on the left is a little muffled but no longer ringing, his chest hurts in too many ways to list, and he takes notes of other scrapes, bruises, and cuts scattered across his skin.

“Matt.” Foggy says, tone way too serious for the combination of natural endorphins and painkillers he’s on right now. He tries (he really does) to focus on the words… and yep, he’s definitely _high_. He can’t even muster up anything to feel annoyed or upset about that. A smile keeps pulling at his exhausted lips just at the sound of Foggy talking. It’s something about _unnecessary_ _risks_ and _if something happened_ and _frankly insane recklessness_. 

“Fine! Forget ‘what if you died’ because **that** doesn’t seem to phase you. What if you _have_ to end up in the hospital, Matt? What if someone else finds you in the dumpster and calls the cops and EMTs, what _then_? What if you can’t crawl out of the next one? Huh?”

Matt snorts. (and it barely hurts now. Why does he hate being high, again?) It sinks in that Foggy’s upset about his wellbeing. And with the cracked/broken ribs feeling so far away they might as well be on somebody else's body and considering all the things Stick put him through it just seems _funny_. His dad’d cared enough when he fell off the beaten path and got into fights to knock some sense into him. And Stick’d… well Stick was a dick and probably didn’t care at all (Matt tells himself) and knocked him around so much and so often that a couple of cracked ribs didn’t do much of anything to slow him down. “Stick’d hurt me worse _all_ the time. S’ not bad…”

He could sense Foggy freeze, breath stopping mid inhale, but he can’t process it. “Stick?”

“My mentor. Taught me how to use my senses” Matt shifts, getting more comfortable, “Not just to navigate the world but to fight.”

“And he, what? Was just allowed to beat the shit out of you?”

“Nah. He,” Matt really has to focus to get his thoughts together, "When he wasn't being paid by the nuns anymore... to them he disappeared but that's when the training started."

“Didn't anyone notice?”

“Yeah," Matt chuckles "I guess it’s a miracle no one called child protective services.” He hums, and falls asleep before Foggy can properly respond.

 

 

The next morning it hurts a lot worse and he can’t remember much of anything that happened the night before.

Foggy’s snoring.

“Foggy. Foggy. Foggy.” Matt intones, getting louder and allowing irritation to seep into his voice.

Foggy snorts awake. “Hey, you’re up.” He says.

“You didn’t have to sleep over.”

“Yes, I did.”

And Matt… doesn’t know what to make of that. It doesn’t sound like Foggy’s mad at him. _Concerned_ , maybe? But… he does a quick body scan. Nothing even hurts _that_ bad. His lung’s fixed, whatever had been wrong with it. And Claire would’ve stayed if he was in danger of drowning in his own blood.

He rolls to his feet and shrugs it off, going to make eggs. If Foggy wants to tell him what it’s about he will, in his own time.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to message or follow me on tumblr at dusty-soul.tumblr.com


End file.
